


Strawberries in Snow

by notenoughcoffee



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughcoffee/pseuds/notenoughcoffee
Summary: Prompt: "Don't pretend you aren't happy to see me like this."Aragon only wants to make a dessert. Boleyn gets in her way.Angsty Aragon by request





	Strawberries in Snow

Catherine tapped her whisk against the edge of the glass mixing bowl, the metallic drumming reverberating off the tiled backsplash. Globs of freshly whipped cream dropped off the wire loops into the dish. Rogue spots of cream spotted the countertop, marring the pristine surface with crisp white tear drops until Catherine had a moment to swipe the tea towel over them, smearing long lines of cream rather than cleaning them up.

She huffed in annoyance at the mess, but dropped the towel and resigned to take care of it when she was finished. She pushed the bowl of whipped cream aside to use later. Cracking the first of many eggs along the rim of a clean bowl, she began to separate the whites into it. Rather than discarding the yolks, she set them aside to make a custard for Jane to make a custard with when she was done in the kitchen.

She poured the egg whites into her bowl of whipped cream. Her arm, already sore from the exertion of whipping the cream, burned in protest as she began the arduous task of turning the egg whites into soft, fluffy peaks. 

“You know we have an electric mixer for that, right,” Anne interrupted the silence from her perch at the other end of the counter. Taking her chance while Catherine’s head was raised, she stretched out her arm. A dab of whipped cream on her fingertip and a long trail of glass glinted, cream conspicuously absent, in the artificial lighting. Catherine scoffed at her, picking up the previously discarded towel and batting it at her. 

“You’ll make yourself sick. And it wouldn’t be the same,” Catherine chided. She had had no idea that it took this much labor to make such a simple dessert when she had decided to look up this recipe, but she didn’t want Anne to know that.

“It’s not going to be the same anyways, you sap,” Anne commented around another mouthful of cream. “You always had someone else making it for you.”

If her arm hadn’t ached from her efforts, Catherine would have used the whisk to batter her. She was wholly tempted to do so regardless of the pain. Instead, she chose to direct her animosity into the egg whites, willing them to form peaks faster after moving the bowl away from Anne’s reach.

Just when Catherine was convinced she would never be able to move her arm again, soft mountainous forms began to hold their shape. With a sigh of relief, she looked to the recipe for her next step, moving her body between the bowl and Anne’s not-quite-stealthy-enough approach. 

Holding her now lame arm at her side, she poured in the rose water and folded in the sugar gradually with her less dominant hand. An ever watchful eye was trained on Anne as she worked out her strategy to abscond with the treat. 

Glowering at the girl, she took the bowl with her to the refrigerator to fetch the rest of the ingredients that had been prepared. Unable to carry both dishes with one arm, her shoulder screamed at the weight of the strawberries. As gravity pulled her weakened arm to the floor, the muscles in her hand relaxed. Time stopped as the bowl of wine-soaked strawberries tipped and spilled onto the tiles below.

She heard Anne gasp behind her, splattered in red wine and spices. Shards of shattered glass lay everywhere, and softened strawberries splashed clear through to the other side of the kitchen, more pulp than berry shaped. 

In her shock, the other bowl began to slip out of her grasp. As her fingers released their grip, she closed her eyes and waited for the second crash to occur.

When no great clatter happened for a second time, she slowly opened her eyes to see that Anne had leapt into action. The second bowl was safely secured in both of her hands. 

Anne placed it gently on the countertop before grabbing the tea towel that Catherine had recently used as a weapon against her, and crouched down to soak up the mess and pick up the larger pieces of glass.

Leaden, Catherine’s legs stayed rooted to the spot, wine and glass surrounding her.

“Don’t move,” Anne cautioned, grabbing the broom to sweep up the shards. 

Catherine looked to the floor again, remembering that she had been barefoot. A steady stream of blood from a nick in her ankle joined the puddle, a stark crimson red mixing with the burgundy spill. The whirling courses were altered with an occasional ripple radiating through, the result of her falling tears. 

She stared at the swirling colors, noticing several more cuts and gashes along the tops of her feet, until her brain caught on and registered the pain of her injuries. Her tears fell faster, though the lacerations were not the cause.

Anne tutted when she saw the sight of her, standing in the middle of the mess, crying, bleeding, covered in strawberries and wine. She disappeared from the kitchen for a moment, returning with a pair of sandals which she helped Catherine step into before guiding her away from the worst of the flood. 

“Don’t pretend like you’re not happy to see me like this,” Catherine whispered when Anne turned back around to finish cleaning.

“What do you mean?” Anne looked at her baffled before gathering additional tea towels and a bag to hold the ones that had already been soaked through. 

Incensed, Catherine scowled at her. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it for what it was earlier. “It’s what you were waiting for in here, wasn’t it?”

“Catherine, I literally don’t know what you’re on about,” Anne threw her hands up in the air, droplets of wine arching off the towel wadded in her hand at the motion.

“You wanted me to fail,” Catherine accused, her breathing ragged and tears still streaming down her face.

Anne’s cleaning halted. From her position on the floor, she turned her head to meet Catherine’s glare with one of her own. “It may come as a surprise to you, but not everything I do is a direct act of vindictiveness against you,” bitterness clung to her every syllable, enunciating with all of the spite she claimed she did not have.

“You knew what today was. You knew what I was making.”

“I’m not as vacuous as you’d think,” Anne retorted, returning to her task with vehemence.

“Then why were you here?”

Anne dropped from her crouched position to her knees, wincing as an unseen sliver of glass imbedded itself beneath her skin. “Because, despite what you may think, I loved her too,” she spoke softly, remembering the vibrant young girl who had raged so willfully against her, just as her mother did now. Always ready for a fight, Anne remembered so fondly how Mary had battled her father time and time again, ignoring all etiquette. Though her ire was directed at her nearly as much as it had been toward Henry, Anne had admired her tenaciousness and her ability to stand firm for what she believed in.

It was her birthday.

Anne could still see the precocious child during one of her first days as a maid of honor for Catherine, staring up at her with a dollop of cream on the tip of her nose, trying to make her laugh before some faceless attendant hauled her off to clean her up and reiterate the proper behavior of a princess. 

Catherine was making that treat. Her favorite. The one she would wait all through the year for, until the strawberries were in season. Even before they were in season, some years, she would simply sprinkle the not-quite-ripe berries with extra sugar and hummed contentedly with every bite. 

“You loved her?” Catherine scoffed. “She wasn’t yours to love.” Furious, Catherine stomped to where Anne was knelt, sending spatter flying in every direction as she stepped. She ripped the towel out of her hand and screamed, “Leave. None of this would have happened if you weren’t here!” Nudging Anne out of the way with her hip, she set to work to finish cleaning the mess. 

Anne stared at her as she scrubbed at a spot on the floor that had already been cleaned, her shoulders hunched and shaking. Ignoring her better judgement, she turned and left the room leaving Catherine to mourn the loss of her daughter alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't know with this one. Just posting it anyways to move on to the next.
> 
> I did go looking for a typical tudor dessert recipe. Strawberries in Snow is a modified version of one of them. The real dyschefull of snowe recipe used apples and rosemary rather than strawberries, but who needs historical accuracy?


End file.
